


Interlude

by aisle_one



Series: After the Credits [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5454587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aisle_one/pseuds/aisle_one
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It made sense that it took a crisis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude

Q has not slept for three days and he is slumped over his desk over a pile of what looks like rubbish to Bond. At Bond’s approach, he jerks upright, startling easily—still. He scrambles to put on his glasses and a thin line forms to seal his lips, but it loosens when he sees that it's only Bond. His relief is palpable, almost a physical thing that pulses from him, and it hits Bond with a wave of guilt, as does Q’s rumpled appearance. He has forsaken his cardigan, which is strewn on the back of his chair, and the white front of his shirt is stained brown. 

“You look shattered,” Bond says.

“You look annoyingly perfect. Who did your ironing on the flight this time?”

“Stefan. And he left me a present.” Bond reaches into his pocket for the mint candy and tosses it on Q’s desk. “I saved it for your sweet tooth.”

“Aren’t you a darling?” Though it’s said sarcastically, Q immediately unwraps the sweet and pops it into his mouth. The wrapper joins a pile at the edge of his desk. Bond suspects that he has been subsisting on little more than that and gallons of tea, and he remembers the primary purpose of his visit. 

Bond holds up a bag and shakes it. “Care for a proper meal?”

“What is it?” Q asks, as if he might actually refuse despite that his stomach lets out a loud groan. He doesn’t move from behind his desk and it forces Bond to deliver the offering directly to its recipient.

Q empties the bag and stands the contents in a line: aloo papri chaat, samosa, chicken korma, and basmati rice—the order in which he plans to eat them. His eyes light up. “You went to Unholy Cow?”

Bond nodded. The restaurant was off the beaten track and not anywhere near Q’s office, but it was a favorite. 

“Are you going to share?” Bond asks, amused as Q proceeds to dig into the hefty plate he has prepared for himself. He answers Bond by gesturing to the empty chair adjacent to his desk and heaping generous amounts of each entrée onto another plate. Except, of course, he leaves the aloo papri chaat. He might get full enough to part with some, or a little really. If Bond’s lucky, he’ll get a taste of it. Though at the rate Q’s going, ploughing steadily through his meal like a mower hacking through a bramble of weeds, the sharing will be unlikely. For a small man, Q ate like a starved street rat, and Bond is reminded that Q hadn’t been far from that not so long ago. But he hadn't been on the street. He was found in a basement, cuffed to a live radiator that burned his skin in patches. They left scars.

They eat in companionable silence, and Q is so engrossed in his food that he doesn’t catch Bond staring. He is lovely, even with yellow sauce dotting his chin and his glasses comically fogged up from the steam still rising from his plate. After they’ve eaten, Bond will force him to go home. He expects Q to argue, to claim that there are too many things to do—emails to read, reports to write, leave requests to approve. But Q won’t win the argument. He never does. Not after Bond kisses him quiet.

And it’s still a wonder how they got here, this place of expectations. Q expects—knows—for instance that Bond will make him tea when they get to Q’s apartment because it’s a thing he does now, after missions. And it must be Q’s apartment they go to because Q has two cats to feed (and cuddle and coddle to Bond’s exasperation, hanged back at the door because they’ve barely stepped in). Meanwhile, Q will draw them a bath. He’ll use too much bubble soap and the froth will overflow to the floor, soaking the mat yet again. This is what Bond will say when Q complains about it, yet again. Q will blame the tub and Bond—the former too small for two and the latter too big to be forcing himself behind Q in it. But there will be no complaining while they are in the tub. Not while Q is leaned back against Bond, sat between his legs and Bond’s hand is between his. _Naughty, naughty._

They haven’t named it, this thing. They’ve barely even talked about it. The pre-exchange of house keys had precipitated a conversation—other than that they had simply moved. It was an old rhythm, speeded perhaps by what had caused Bond to return, but Q’s kidnapping had not created it. 

Q’s kidnapping—an FYI via a curt phone call from M. _Thought you’d want to know._ Then click, and Bond was left staring at his mobile.

Admittedly, the crushing fear had taken him by surprise. In retrospect, it made sense that it took a crisis. That it was the impossibly unbearable thought that he could lose Q before he had even had the chance to have him that shook Bond to an understanding, the realization of what Q meant to Bond. He wasn’t infatuated, not like with Madeleine, who was captivating but temporary. Their rhythm had an end, but his and Q’s—

They have not used the L word. It is not unnecessary, though seems almost like an afterthought. As in, of course—of course, he does. 

Though later in bed where Bond has Q as he likes him, snuggled to his side, his head on Bond’s chest, Bond says, “D’ya know?”

Q looks up at him, confused. “What?”

Then Bond says it. Not because it needs saying, or that Q needs to hear it, or because it has to define something that had not before been defined. It doesn’t. He says it because Q is here, because he can, and because—why not? Why the hell not?


End file.
